"They're just jealous French cows. You look too damn good in a bikini," scoffed Christophe, whenever I complained of those painful summers. "They'd talk to you if you were riddled with cellulite and varicose veins." He made me guffaw, yet I could not quite believe him. But I did love the beauty of the place, the ancient quiet house that always felt cool even during the fiercest summers, the large rambling garden full of old oak trees and the view on the curvaceous river Yonne. And the nearby forest, where Zoe and I would go for long walks, when as a baby she had been entranced by the chirp of a bird, a twig with a strange shape, or the murky sparkle of hidden marsh.
The rue de Saintonge apartment, according to Bertrand and Antoine, would be ready in early September. Bertrand and his team had done a great job. But I had not yet envisaged living there. Living there now that I knew what had happened. The wall had been pulled down, but I remembered the secret deep cupboard. The cupboard where little Michel had waited for his sister to come back. In vain.
The story haunted me, relentlessly. I had to admit I was not looking forward to living in the apartment. I dreaded nights there. I dreaded bringing back the past, and I had no idea how to prevent myself from doing so.
It was hard not being able to talk to Bertrand about it. I needed his down-to-earth approach, longed to hear him say that despite the awfulness, we'd get over it, we'd find a way. I could not tell him. I had promised his father. What would Bertrand think of the whole story, I wondered. And his sisters? I tried to imagine their reaction. And Mame's. It was impossible. The French were closed up, like clams. Nothing must be shown. Nothing must be revealed. Everything was to remain unruffled, undisturbed. That's how it was. How it had always been. And I found it increasingly tough to live with.
With Zoe gone to America, home felt empty. I spent more time at the office, working on a witty piece for the September issue about young French writers and the Parisian literary scene. Interesting and time consuming. Every evening, I found it harder and harder to leave the office, put off by the prospect of the silent rooms that awaited me. I took the long way home, reveling in what Zoe called "Mom's long shortcuts," enjoying the city's fiery beauty at sunset. Paris was beginning to take on that deliciously abandoned look it harbored from mid-July. Shops had rolled their iron grids down, with signs reading CLOSED FOR VACATION, OPENING UP SEPTEMBER I. I had to walk for long stretches to find an open pharmacie, grocer's, boulangerie, or cleaner's. Parisians were taking off for their summer spree, leaving their city to indefatigable tourists. And as I walked home on those balmy July evenings, marching straight from the Champs-Elysees to Montparnasse, I felt Paris without its Parisians belonged to me at last.
Yes, I loved Paris, I had always loved it, but as I strolled at dusk along the Pont Alexandre III, with the golden dome of the Invalides gleaming like a huge jewel, I missed the States with such poignancy that the pain seared right to the pit of my gut. I missed home--what I had to call home, even if I had lived in France for more than half my life. I missed the casualness, the freedom, the space, the easiness, the language, the simplicity of being able to say "you" to each and every person, not the complicated vous and tu I had never perfectly mastered and which still threw me. I had to admit it. I missed my sister, my parents, I missed America. I missed it like I had never missed it before.
As I neared our neighborhood, beckoned by the tall brown grimness of the Tour Montparnasse that Parisians loved to hate (but that I was fond of because it allowed me to find my way back from any arrondissement), I suddenly wondered what Paris had been like under the Occupation. Sarah's Paris. Gray-green uniforms and round helmets. The implacability of curfew and Ausweis. German signs posted up in Gothic lettering. Huge swastikas plastered over the noble stone buildings.
And children wearing the yellow star.
T
HE CLINIC WAS A well-to-do, cushy place, with beaming nurses, obsequious receptionists and careful flower arrangements. The abortion was to take place the following morning, at seven. I had been asked to come in the night before, on July 15. Bertrand had gone to Brussels, to clinch an important business deal. I hadn't insisted for him to be there. I somehow felt better with him not around. It was easier to settle into the dainty apricot-colored room alone. At another moment, I would have wondered why Bertrand's presence seemed superfluous. How surprising, considering he was part and parcel of my everyday life. Yet here I was, going through the severest crisis of my life, without him, and relieved at his absence.
I moved like a robot, mechanically folding my clothes, putting my toothbrush on the shelf above the basin, staring through the window at the bourgeois facades of the quiet street. What the hell are you doing? whispered an inner voice I had tried to ignore all day. Are you crazy, are you really going to go through with this? I hadn't told anyone about my final decision. No one at all, apart from Bertrand. I did not want to think about his blissful smile when I told him I'd do it, the way he had pulled me close, kissing the top of my head with unrestrained fervor.
I sat on the narrow bed and took the Sarah file out of my bag. Sarah was the only person I could bear thinking about right now. Finding her felt like a sacred mission, felt like the only possible way to keep my head up, to dispel the sadness in which my life had become immersed. Finding her, yes, but how? There was no Sarah Dufaure or Sarah Starzynski in the phone book. That would have been too easy. The address on Jules Dufaure's letters was no longer in use. So I had decided to trace his children, or grandchildren, the young men in the Trouville photograph: Gaspard and Nicolas Dufaure, men who would be in their mid-sixties or early seventies, I guessed.
Unfortunately Dufaure was a common name. There were hundreds of them in the Orleans area. That meant phoning each one of them. I had worked at it hard in the past week, spent hours on the Internet, poring over phone books, making endless calls, and then facing disappointing dead ends.
And then, that very morning, I had spoken to a Nathalie Dufaure whose number had been listed in Paris. A young, joyful voice had answered me. I went into the usual routine, repeated what I had said over and over again to strangers on the other end of the line: "My name is Julia Jarmond, I'm a journalist, I'm trying to trace a Sarah Dufaure, born in 1932, the only names I have are Gaspard and Nicolas Dufaure--"
She interrupted me, Yes, Gaspard Dufaure was her grandfather. He lived in Ascheres-le-Marche, just outside Orleans. He had an unlisted number. I held on to the receiver, breathless. I asked Nathalie if she remembered Sarah Dufaure at all. The young woman laughed. It was a nice laugh. She explained that she was born in 1982, and she didn't know much about her grandfather's childhood. No, she had not heard of Sarah Dufaure. At least, she didn't remember anything specific. She could call her grandfather if I liked. He was a gruff fellow, he didn't like the telephone, but she could do it and get back to me. She asked for my number. Then she said: "Are you American? I love your accent."
I had waited for her call all day. Nothing. I kept checking my mobile, making sure the batteries were charged, that it was turned on properly. Still nothing. Maybe Gaspard Dufaure was not interested in talking to a journalist about Sarah. Maybe I had not been persuasive enough. Maybe I had been too persuasive. Maybe I shouldn't have said I was a journalist. I should have said a friend of the family. But no, I couldn't say that. It wasn't true. I couldn't lie. I didn't want to.
Ascheres-le-Marche. I had looked it up on a map. A small village halfway between Orleans and Pithiviers, the sister camp to Beaune-la-Rolande, not far away, either. It was not Jules and Genevieve's old address. So it had not been where Sarah had spent ten years of her life.
I grew impatient. Should I call Nathalie Dufaure back? As I was toying with the idea, the mobile rang. I grabbed it, breathed, "Allo?" It was my husband, calling from Brussels. I felt disappointment jab my nerves.
I realized I did not want to talk to Bertrand. What could I say to him?
T
HE NIGHT HAD BEEN brief and restless. At dawn, a matronly nurse had appeared, a folded b
lue paper gown in her arms. I would be needing it for "the operation." She smiled. There was also a blue paper bonnet and blue paper shoes. She would come back in half an hour, and I'd be wheeled straight to the operation room. She reminded me, still with the same hearty smile, that I was not allowed to drink or eat anything because of the anesthesia. She left, closing the door gently. I wondered how many women she was going to wake up this morning with that smile, how many pregnant women about to have a baby scraped out of their womb. Like me.
I put the gown on, docile. The paper felt itchy next to my skin. There was nothing else to do but wait. I turned the television on, zapped to LCI, the nonstop news channel. I watched, not concentrating. My mind felt numb. Blank. In an hour or so, it would be over. Was I ready for this? Could I cope with it? Was I strong enough? I felt incapable of answering those questions. I could only lie there in my paper dress and paper hat, and wait. Wait to be wheeled into the operating room. Wait to be put to sleep. Wait for the doctor to perform. I didn't want to think about the exact movements he was going to undertake within me, between my opened thighs. I blocked the thought out, fast, focused on a svelte blonde making professional, sweeping motions with manicured hands over a map of France dotted with sunny round faces. I remembered the last session with the therapist, a week ago. Bertrand's hand on my knee. "No, we do not want this child. We both agree." I had remained silent. The therapist had looked at me. Had I nodded? I couldn't remember. I remember feeling sedated, hypnotized. And then Bertrand, in the car: "That was the right thing to do, amour. You'll see. It will soon be over." And the way he had kissed me, passionate, heated.
The blonde vanished. An anchorman appeared, and the familiar jingle for the newsreel was heard. "Today, July 16, 2002, marks the sixtieth anniversary of the Velodrome d'Hiver roundup, in which thousands of Jewish families were arrested by the French police. A black moment in France's past."
Quickly, I put up the sound. As the camera zoomed along the rue Nelaton, I thought of Sarah, wherever she was now. She would remember today. She didn't need to be reminded. Ever. For her, and for all those families who had lost loved ones, July 16 was not to be forgotten, and this morning, of all mornings, they would open eyelids heavy with pain. I wanted to tell her, tell them, tell all these people--how? I thought, feeling helpless, useless--I wanted to shout, to scream out to her, to them, that I knew, that I remembered, and that I could not forget.
Several survivors--some of whom I had already met and interviewed--were shown in front of the Vel' d'Hiv' plaque. I realized I had not yet seen this week's issue of Seine Scenes with my article in it. It was out today. I decided to leave a message on Bamber's mobile, asking him to have a copy sent to the clinic. I turned on my phone, eyes riveted to the television. Franck Levy's grave face appeared. He talked about the commemoration. It was going to be more important than the previous years, he pointed out. The phone beeped, telling me I had voice mail. One message was from Bertrand, late last night, telling me he loved me.
The next one was from Nathalie Dufaure. She was sorry to be calling so late, she hadn't been able to phone before. She had good news: her grandfather was intent on meeting me, he had said he could tell me all about Sarah Dufaure. He had seemed so excited that Nathalie's curiosity had been aroused. Her animated voice drowned out Franck Levy's level tones: "If you want, I could take you to Ascheres tomorrow, Tuesday, I could drive you there, no problem. I really want to hear what Papy has to say. Please phone me, so we can meet somewhere."
My heart was beating fast, almost painfully. The anchorman was back on the screen, presenting another topic. It was too early to call Nathalie Dufaure now. I'd have to wait a couple of hours. My feet danced with anticipation in their paper slippers. ". . . tell me all about Sarah Dufaure." What did Gaspard Dufaure have to say? What would I learn?
A knock on the door startled me. The nurse's garish smile jolted me back to reality.
"Time to go, Madame," she said briskly, showing teeth and gums.
I heard the stretcher's rubbery wheels squeak outside the door.
All of a sudden, everything was perfectly clear. It had never been so clear, so easy.
I got up, faced her.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "I've changed my mind."
I pulled the paper bonnet off. She stared at me, unblinking.
"But Madame--," she began.
I tore the paper dress open. The nurse averted shocked eyes from my sudden nudity.
"The doctors are waiting," she said.
"I don't care," I said, firmly. "I'm not going to do this. I want to keep this baby."
Her mouth quivered with indignation.
"I will send the doctor to see you immediately."
She turned and walked away. I heard the click of her sandals along the linoleum, sharp with disapproval. I slipped a denim dress over my head, stepped into my shoes, seized my bag and left the room. As I scrambled down the stairs, past startled nurses carrying breakfast trays, I realized I'd left my toothbrush, towels, shampoo, soap, deodorant, makeup kit and face cream in the bathroom. So what, I thought, rushing through the prim, tidy entrance, so what! So what!
The street was empty with that fresh, gleaming look Parisian sidewalks boast early in the morning. I hailed a taxi and rode home.
July 16, 2002.
My baby. My baby was safe within me. I wanted to laugh and cry. I did. The taxi driver eyed me several times in the rearview mirror, but I didn't care. I was going to have this baby.
I
MADE A ROUGH ESTIMATE, counting over two thousand people grouped by the Seine, along the Bir-Hakeim bridge. The survivors. The families. Children, grandchildren. Rabbis. The mayor of the city. The prime minister. The minister of defense. Numerous politicians. Journalists. Photographers. Franck Levy. Thousands of flowers, a soaring marquee, a white platform. An impressive gathering. Guillaume stood by my side, his face solemn, his eyes downcast.
Fleetingly, I recalled the old lady from the rue Nelaton. What was it she had said? "Nobody remembers. Why should they? Those were the darkest days of our country."
I suddenly wished she could be here now, gazing at the hundreds of silent, emotional faces around me. From the stand, a beautiful middle-aged woman with thick auburn hair sang. Her clear voice rose above the roar of the nearby traffic. Then the prime minister began his speech.
"Sixty years ago, right here, in Paris, but also throughout France, the appalling tragedy began to take place. The march toward horror was speeding up. Already, the Shoah's shadow darkened the innocent people herded into the Velodrome d'Hiver. This year, like every year, we are gathered together in this place to remember. So as to forget nothing of the persecutions, the hunting down, and shattered destiny of so many French Jews."
An old man on my left took a handkerchief from his pocket and wept noiselessly. My heart went out to him. Who was he crying for? I wondered. Who had he lost? As the prime minister went on, my eyes moved over the crowd. Was there anyone here who knew and remembered Sarah Starzynski? Was she here herself? Right now, at this very moment? Was she here with a husband, a child, a grandchild? Behind me, in front of me? I carefully picked out women in their seventies, scanning wrinkled, solemn faces for the slanted green eyes. But I did not feel comfortable ogling these grieving strangers. I lowered my gaze. The prime minister's voice seemed to gain in strength and clarity, booming out over us.
"Yes, Vel' d'Hiv', Drancy, and all the transit camps, those antechambers of death, were organized, run, and guarded by Frenchmen. Yes, the first act of the Shoah took place right here, with the complicity of the French State."
The many faces around me appeared to be serene, listening to the prime minister. I watched them as he continued with the same powerful voice. But every one of those faces contained sorrow. Sorrow that could never be erased. The prime minister's speech was applauded for a long time. I noticed people crying, hugging each other.
Still with Guillaume, I went to speak to Franck Levy, who was carrying a copy of Sein
e Scenes under his arm. He greeted me warmly, introduced us to a couple of journalists. A few moments later, we left. I told Guillaume I had found out who lived in the Tezac apartment, that somehow this had brought me closer to my father-in-law, who had kept a dark secret for over sixty years. And that I was trying to trace Sarah, the little girl who had escaped from Beaune-la-Rolande.
In half an hour, I was meeting Nathalie Dufaure in front of the Pasteur metro station. She was going to drive me to Orleans, to her grandfather. Guillaume kissed me warmly and hugged me. He said he wished me luck.
As I crossed the busy avenue, my palm caressed my stomach. If I had not left the clinic this morning, I would have been regaining consciousness by now in my cozy apricot room, watched over by the beaming nurse. A dainty breakfast--croissant, jam, and cafe au lait--and I would have left the place alone in the afternoon, a little unsteadily, a sanitary pad between my legs, a dull pain in my lower abdomen. A void in my mind and in my heart.